


1967 Plymouth GTX Convertible, Black.

by Basingstoke



Category: Angel: the Series, Supernatural
Genre: Character of Color, Crossover, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-20
Updated: 2006-08-20
Packaged: 2017-10-02 17:34:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Basingstoke/pseuds/Basingstoke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Thanks to researchgrrrl for her invaluable help on my first attempt at Supernatural.<br/>For Zee, because she wanted it.</p>
    </blockquote>





	1967 Plymouth GTX Convertible, Black.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to researchgrrrl for her invaluable help on my first attempt at Supernatural.  
> For Zee, because she wanted it.

Dean was staring at the bald black guy on the other side of the magic shop, and Sam was starting to find it politically incorrect. "Quit it," Sam muttered, kicking Dean in the boot.

"He bugs me," Dean said, still staring. The black guy started to stare back.

A big white guy with a hand basket full of herbs poked the black guy. "We need an Orb of Mar," he said.

Dean edged in front of Sam, shoving his own hand basket into Sam's thigh. "Seriously, if you get in a fight in here, I'm kicking your ass," Sam hissed.

"We've got an Orb of Mar. They're up to no good," Dean said, a little too loud.

"They got my last Orb of Mar," the ancient shopkeeper said, and then it was on. The other two stalked up to Sam and Dean. Sam and Dean drew themselves up as tall as they could go. Dean was possibly standing on his toes a little.

"I'm Angel," said the white guy. Dean snorted a little.

"Gun," said the black guy.

"No shooting!" shrieked the shopkeeper. "And somebody pay!"

Both Angel and Dean held up cash, then scowled at each other.

"We're using it for a good cause," Sam said soothingly.

"We're using it for a better one," the black guy said.

"No," Sam said, thinking of the zombies, "I think we have you beat."

"Look. We need it for zombies. And if you don't let us buy it, we'll let you buy it and hit you until you give it to us anyway," Angel said. "I'm short on patience these days. Okay?"

"You can *try*--" Dean started.

Sam stomped on his foot. Dean dropped the hand basket and said, "Dude!"

"We're also going after the zombies," Sam said. "You can pay."

The other guys looked at each other and shrugged.

*

"His Latin is *great,*" Sam said.

"Fuck you, college boy." Dean poured the holy water.

"Listen to how crisp his vowels are."

"I *knew* you'd turn gay in California."

"You could take a few pointers," Sam said, kicking Dean with the side of his boot as the Orb of Mar set the holy water alight with the purifying flame.

*

Afterwards, Sam had a hunch and flipped through Dad's journals. "Are you Angel as in Angel Investigations?" he asked, finding the page.

"Not any more."

"Nah, we still are," said the black guy, whose name actually was Gunn.

"Minus Cordy and Wesley and Fred?" Angel looked off in the middle distance.

"Dad worked with you back in '99. A possession."

"What, for real?" Dean pulled on Sam's arm and read over his elbow.

"Winchester?" Angel frowned. "Beard? Shotgun?"

"If he killed every God damn evil thing in the room, that's Dad," Dean said.

"He called me a mercenary bastard for charging for the exorcism, but he took his cut anyway," Angel said. Gunn laughed. "Well, it was a business," Angel said, looking peeved.

Sam and Dean looked at each other. Dean pointed to the book, meaning that if Dad thought Angel was okay, if kind of jerky, then he was okay. Sam shrugged in agreement, thinking of that beautiful Latin.

"Want to get a beer?" Dean asked.

"There's a place down the way. Don't freak out when you see the bartender. He's cool," Gunn said.

*

The blue-skinned guy behind the bar turned mournful eyes on Sam while Dean and Gunn played pool.

"Foretelling is a better party trick than a weapon. Trust me, I know. My cousin went down that way," the bartender said.

Sam shrugged noncommittally. He hadn't said a damn thing; the blue guy had just looked at him and started talking. This place was making his skin crawl.

"But there are choices," Angel said. He'd ordered a beer but hadn't touched it, just stared into the plastic cup.

"It killed--people. People I love." Or should have loved, and didn't have time to. "I chose to ignore that, and now I choose not to."

"When you look into the abyss, the abyss looks into you," Angel said.

"I know." Sam looked at him. "That was a great banishment. My brother and I, we're usually more ad hoc, and it doesn't always work."

"That?" Angel's brow furrowed as he stared at his beer. "That was nothing."

"What do you normally hunt?"

Angel looked up and didn't say anything for a minute. "Demons," he said.

"Excuse *me*, Mary," the bartender said.

"I didn't mean you," Angel growled.

"You're cut off," said the bartender. He stomped to the end of the bar and stood with folded arms, switching his tail like an angry cat.

"Hey!" Dean poked Sam hard in the back. "I'm going to show Gunn my guns."

"One second." Sam picked up his beer, because he really did want it. Spoils of victory and all that.

"No, it's cool. You stay."

*

Which, Sam realized later, was code for "if the motel room is rocking, don't come knocking," but you had to forgive him, because it's not like Dean had ever said anything. Ever. About liking, for instance, another man giving it to him while he clutched the top of the cheap motel dresser with white knuckles and groaned "harder, harder, you're a stallion."

Sam was pretty sure he would have remembered.

Sam shut the door quietly. They didn't even notice. When he turned around, Angel was standing a couple of doors down, holding a key, looking at Sam.

"Huh," Angel said.

"Do you mind if I hang out for a little?" Sam asked.

*

There was a bedspread tacked over the window in Angel's motel room. Privacy, Sam guessed. Dad did that sometimes when he absolutely didn't want anyone getting the right idea about what he was doing in there. There was a small bag of clothes and a large suitcase of books. They could hear Dean and Gunn a bit too clearly through the walls.

Sam rubbed the back of his neck. "Sorry about my brother," he said.

"They're young," Angel said.

"He's older than I am."

"You're all young," Angel said, looking dark.

"Cool books," Sam said, changing the subject.

"I've been collecting for a while."

Sam gestured. "Do you mind?"

"I don't mind," Angel said. He turned, still frowning, and went into the bathroom. Sam cleared his throat, tried to clear his mind of imagery, ignored the thumping against the wall, and checked out the freaking gorgeous books sitting casually in the suitcase.

Vampires. Demons. English, French, German, Russian, something else Sam had never even seen before that looked like it was written with a stylus instead of a pen. Books bound in leather that still had *hair* on it. Weirder things, things that tingled when Sam touched them. Dangerous things.

Water ran briefly in the sink, then Angel came out. "You are serious," Sam said.

"I've averted an apocalypse a couple of times. But there's always another one. Always more to lose. I wonder--does it happen, and I'm there just in time to stop it, or does it happen because I'm there?" Angel fixed his eyes on Sam, and Sam didn't have the answer, except that he prayed it wasn't "because I was there," but didn't hold out much hope for it.

Angel dropped his eyes. "Do you know how to play euchre?" he asked.

"Yeah," Sam said, letting out his breath.

*

Angel trounced him, of course, but Sam didn't let it get to him. Blackjack was his game. He was yawning, though, and making stupid mistakes; it had to be late. Sam checked his watch as the door opened and Gunn stumbled through.

"Man," Gunn said, staggering two steps and falling face down onto the bed. "Man," he muttered, and then apparently fell asleep, fully clothed.

"Dawn?" Sam cricked his neck. "Thanks," he said to Angel.

Angel was wincing. "Can you get the door?"

"Yeah, I'm just--" He paused. Something--he didn't know. He could smell Gunn, sweaty and male and sharp. He couldn't smell Angel. Angel was pale and--

"Christo," Sam said, and Angel flinched. He looked up, yellow-eyed, and snarled with sharp white teeth.

Sam grabbed for the gun he wasn't carrying. They'd had shotguns for the zombies and he didn't have a pistol on him, or any more holy water, or his silver knife. He dug into his pocket for his cross as Angel grabbed him by the throat.

Angel lifted him straight-armed, impossibly, up off his feet. Sam was three inches taller than Angel. He dangled from Angel's hand, scrabbling at him with his fingers, until Angel yanked him in close.

"Amateur!" Angel shouted in his ear. "Amateur. You're a child! Go home!" And he threw Sam out onto the sidewalk, slamming the door behind him. The Do Not Disturb sign swung in a full circle and slipped off the knob.

Sam scrambled backwards, breathing hard. He should have guessed--that bar, that thing behind the counter, what was he *thinking*--he knew what Dean was thinking, apparently, but he was the smart one, DAMN it.

The door whipped open again. Sam tried to get his feet under him, but Angel leaned over him, one finger like granite against his chest, wrapped a blanket like a turtle's shell. The shape of a cross was scorched into the back of his hand. "I can smell your blood," he whispered. "Psychics taste like brandy. I could have killed you. I could kill you now. Go back to your mommy," he said.

"Go back to hell!" Sam yelled.

Angel's face--melted. The demon vanished and he looked human again. "Go home," he said again.

"Hey, what the hell?" Gunn groaned from the doorway. An axe was casually propped on his shoulder, a brutal, jagged thing that looked like it was made from a hubcap.

Angel straightened up and turned, slowly. "Junior found out my secret identity." He settled the blanket around him and walked back into the room.

Gunn rubbed his face. "It's okay, kid. Uh, Sam. He's cool. He does a lot of good."

"Sure," Sam said, settling into a chilly calm. "Yeah, he just took me by surprise."

"Get some sleep. They do a good cheeseburger at the diner. We can do lunch later," Gunn said, jerking his thumb at the place next door.

"You can buy for my brother," Sam said. Gunn laughed and closed the door.

Sam rubbed his chest, feeling the ghost of Angel's finger as if a nail had been pulled out. He scrambled upright, lurching on unsteady knees, and ran to his own room. "Up," he snapped, pinching his fucked-out brother in the soft skin behind his knee.

Sam tossed whatever he could put his hands on into whatever was available to take it. "Huh?" Dean groaned.

"Leaving. Now." A demon and a snookered human confederate, and there they were, out of holy water. Guns into the duffel. Clothes into a backpack. Journal into a backpack. Sam whipped into the bathroom to check for whatever, then punched Dean in the shoulder. "Now!"

"Jesus, bitch, I'm going!" Dean pulled on jeans and a T-shirt and then Sam took him by the collar and dragged him outside barefoot, boots and jacket and underwear in his hands. He shoved Dean in the passenger seat, heart hammering in his chest, and it was fifty miles before he stopped for breath.

*

Sam shoved his head in the sink as far as it would go, trying to wash the sweat out of his hair.

"You could have let me shower. I'm all itchy," Dean grumbled. He was trying to sponge off in the next sink.

"And you stink," Sam said. "And you're the one who turned gay in California. What the hell was that?"

"What was what, gaywad?"

"I saw you fuck a guy!" Sam said. "Next time, use the Do Not Disturb sign."

"Man, you know not to come in without knocking!" Dean flicked water on Sam's back.

"You called him a stallion," Sam pointed out.

"You never talked dirty to your girl?"

"I never called her a stallion."

"You gotta let this go, man. I get more action than you do. Cope," Dean smirked. "Why exactly did we go running out of there like we were on fire?"

Sam rested his forehead on the porcelain. His hair dripped down into the sink. "Because I played euchre with a demon," Sam said. "And I didn't even know it. And we're amateurs."

"Euchre?"

"Yeah."

"Fag."

"*Stallion*," Sam pointed out again.

"Well, he was," Dean said.

"Give me a towel," Sam said, wringing his hair out in the sink. "We need to restock on holy water and get someone to bless our bullets."

"Silver," Dean said, giving him a towel.

"Spirit powder," Sam agreed.

Angel's car was gone by the time they got back to the motel, but Sam had the plates, and they were hunters.

End.


End file.
